I'm Fine
by hiccups-and-sighs
Summary: Oliver receives a diagnosis that puts his career in danger. But Quidditch is more than his job-it's his life-and he wasn't planning on being on the sidelines for Scotland's National Team. When ignoring his problems isn't an option, he'll have to face them head-on...
1. Ch 1 The Set-up

**A/n: This little project is very personal for me. I'm currently in a situation very similar to Oliver's and writing about it has helped me a lot. I hope you enjoy.**

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"Well," the sports healer sighed, watching the tip of his wand glow as he passed it over Oliver Wood's right arm and shoulder. "You've certainly done a number on your arm."

"But you can fix it, right?" Oliver asked impatiently. He was already missing valuable practice time as it was—he didn't need a healer telling him something he already knew.

"Tell me again how it feels?" the healer asked, avoiding Oliver's question. Oliver held back an aggravated sigh.

"There's some pain up here," he said, gesturing with this left hand to the top of his right shoulder, "and then there's a kind of burning feeling down the back of my arm." It was his fourth time repeating the symptoms, and his third to this healer alone. He was beginning to wish he'd never mentioned it to the team captain.

"Any loss of feeling in your hand at all?" the healer asked. Oliver thought that was an odd question.

"No," he decided. "Listen, can you fix it or not?" he asked.

"It's a bit tricky," the healer started. This time, Oliver couldn't suppress a frustrated sigh. "The inflammation around the area is giving me some conflicting readings. It could be a tear in your rotator cuff, could be a pinched nerve, or possibly just some muscle strain. I suggest taking some steroid potions to decrease inflammation and we can go from there."

"I can't take steroids and play in an IQA match—you _know_ this!" Oliver snapped. He stood up from the cot his was sitting on and pulled his quidditch kit over his head, preparing to leave.

"Well, if you just take some time off—"

Oliver snorted and cut him off. "Fat chance. We're playing France in four days. My arm isn't even that bad; just forget it."

"I can give you some exercises to help strengthen the muscles," the healer persisted. "But if you don't take time off to rest, I'm afraid it'll only get worse—especially if it's a pinched nerve or rotator cuff injury!"

"I do enough exercises in training," Oliver huffed and left the office.

Back on the pitch, Oliver hurried to put his gear back on and get in the air, hoping he hadn't missed anything important. Up to this point on the Scotland National Team, Oliver had never missed a single practice, and he certainly wasn't going to start now.

"What's the diagnosis?" Team captain and star seeker Don Brandenberg hovered a few feet above Oliver, looking concerned.

"Nothing. Just some muscle strain," Oliver lied. Though, was it a lie? Oliver convinced himself that his arm was already feeling better.

"You sure?" Don pressed. "It wasn't 'nothing' this morning."

"I'm fine," Oliver insisted. He kicked off from the ground to meet Brandenberg in the air. "Wouldn't have even gone to the healer if you hadn't made me."

The captain frowned and flew in closer to Oliver. "Listen, Wood, if you need to take this game off to rest up, it's not a big deal. There's enough time—we can get Liu up in the air with no problems."

"I'm fine," Oliver repeated forcefully.

"Seriously, Oliver, as your friend," Brandenberg said. "I don't want you to push yourself too hard."

" _Seriously_ , Don," Oliver said, a bit more mockingly than he had intended. "Drop it."

Brandenberg shrugged and flew a distance away. "If you insist, mate," he said, then called out to the rest of the team. "Alright, keeper's back! Let's run drills C and D!"

Oliver was glad to be back in the practice. In truth, he appreciated Brandenberg's concern, but there was no way he was going to give up the opportunity to face off against France again. After their crushing defeat in the World Cup quarter finals four years previously, Oliver was itching to show them exactly how far Scotland's team had come. And he wasn't going to let a slight twinge in his arm get in the way.

The healer didn't know what he was talking about, Oliver decided. Now that he was playing again, his arm felt perfectly fine. He just hadn't warmed up properly that morning was all. Maybe he pulled a muscle slightly, but no cause for alarm. Really, Brandenberg was overreacting sending him to the sports healer. He was fine.

Chaser Nikita Ramanujen made a spectacular shot towards the left goal post and Oliver practically dove of his broom to catch it. A burst of white-hot pain shot down his right arm in protest.

Okay, maybe he would ice it once he got home. But it was fine; it was nothing.

"You'll have to try a bit harder than that, Niki!" Oliver called playfully as he tossed the quaffle back her way. He massaged his upper arm slightly, but stopped when he caught Brandenberg eyeing him suspiciously.

He was fine. It would go away in a day or two.

Practice ended uneventfully, and the team descended to the locker room for a debrief and showers. Before Oliver could leave, however, Brandenberg cornered him once again.

"Oliver, you need to seriously consider stepping out of the game this week," he said quietly, so none of the other players could hear.

"Don, please," Oliver protested. "I told you, I'm—"

"Fine?" Brandenberg finished for him. He shook his head in exasperation. "Whatever, Wood. Do what you want."

Oliver left practice in a huff, thoroughly annoyed and—though he wouldn't admit it, even to himself—in pain.

The next three days of practice passed in a similar way. Oliver continued to ignore the pain in his right shoulder and arm as best he could, careful not to make any faces or otherwise indicate in any way that he was struggling—especially not in front of Don. At first, Oliver had comforted himself with the fact that his discomfort had not gotten any worse over the last few days of practice, but despite his frequent icings, the pain was gradually getting worse.

It would be fine. He just had to push through.

"Doing okay?" Brandenberg asked him as they walked off the pitch to the locker rooms the night before the match against France.

"Good as new!" Oliver lied, forcing a smile. Brandenberg looked relieved at this.

"Great!" the captain said. "Guess it was just nothing after all."

"Told you," Oliver said with a grin. He felt a bit guilty lying to Don. However, things were sure to get better after the match. There was no reason to bother him with it now.

"Okay, team!" Brandenberg said, addressing the players before him in the locker room. "I don't need to tell you how important tomorrow's match is. France beat us once, but they will _not_ beat us again!" A couple players cheered in agreement.

"We are stronger, we are faster, and we are better than we were four years ago," he continued, "and we're going to kick some French arse tomorrow!" The entire team cheered and broke for the showers.

Oliver took the opportunity of privacy in the shower stall to massage his right arm and shoulder without drawing Don's attention. His shoulder was sore, and the burning sensation had spread further down the back of his bicep to his elbow.

But he was fine.

 _One more day_ , he told himself. He could push through one more day of Quidditch like this. Then, maybe he'd take Don up on his offer and take some time off. Maybe.

By the time Oliver left the showers, most of the team had already gone home.

 _One more day_ , Oliver repeated to himself. _I'm fine_.

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 **A/n: Read & review, please! x**


	2. Ch 2 France vs Scotland

France Vs. Scotland

The mood in the locker room was far more serious the next evening. The Scotland National Team was gathered in a huddle receiving a final pep talk from their captain as the roar of the crowd outside in the stands bled through the walls.

"We're on home turf, we have the faster brooms, the better players. There's no reason why we shouldn't win tonight," Brandenberg was saying.

Oliver had woken up that morning with his shoulder stiffer than usual. He chalked it up to nerves, though doubt was slowly starting to creep into his mind. He pushed the thoughts away and tried to focus on the captain's speech.

"'Scotland' on three, ready?" Brandenberg said, signaling the end of his talk. "One, two, three—"

"Scotland!" the team yelled. They grabbed their brooms and headed off to the pitch.

"Ready, Ollie?" Brandenberg asked, flushed with excitement. "We're going to crush them this time!" He clapped Oliver on the shoulder and he grinned back in order to disguise a wince of pain. His shoulder wasn't necessarily painful, it was just… _tender_.

Nothing he couldn't handle.

The team flew in formation around the pitch as the commentator announced their names: " _Your chasers: Boyd, Miller, and Ramanujen! Beaters Khan and MacFhionnleigh! Keeper, Wood! Aaand your seeker—and captain: Brandenberg_!"

After another lap around the pitch, the players settled into position. Oliver steadied himself in front of the three goals, trying to clear his mind for the start of the game, which was made more difficult by the dull pain in his right arm. The whistle blew, and the game began. There was no going back now.

The game was exceptionally dirty, as matches against rivals usually were. Both teams eager to prove themselves—Scotland, to prove that they would not be beaten again, France to defend their victory.

Oliver guarded the Scotland goalposts with the fervor he had come to be known for. Not a single goal had made it past him, despite repeated attempts to do so. Each time he made a save, his right arm seared with pain momentarily. Each time, the pain dissipated as quickly as it had come. The pain was manageable. For now.

 _I'm fine_ , Oliver told himself. _I can push through_.

One of France's chasers made a trick shot towards Scotland's goal. The quaffle span wildly to Oliver's right, threatening to slip through his clutches. In an act of desperation, Oliver swung out his arm to stop it. The force of the shot pushed his arm back just slightly, but not enough to get past him. Oliver caught the quaffle and threw it back into play.

At first, everything seemed fine. Oliver shook off the momentary discomfort as he had done for all the goals previously and watched the quaffle like a hawk while it passed between players trying to score. His right hand began to feel a bit cold against his broom handle. He opened and closed his fingers a few times to warm them up, but they remained frigid.

And then, the weirdest sensation began to make its way up and down his right arm. First, it felt a bit numb. Then, pins and needles, like his arm had fallen asleep. Oliver shook his right arm in an attempt to get the blood flowing. It didn't help—if anything, it made it worse.

Oliver's stomach dropped with the realization that something was seriously wrong. He began to panic as he moved his elbow back and forth, trying to return it back to normal.

 _Whoosh!_

Oliver had taken his attention from the game just long enough for a quaffle to slip by him. In vain, he lunged to the left to catch it, but it was too late. A bell rang out across the stadium, signaling ten points to the French team. Oliver tried to catch himself from his lunge with his right arm gripping the broomstick, but with the numbness spreading into his finger, his hand slipped, and his face broke his fall against the handle of the broom.

"That's France's first goal for ten points!" the commentator called. "And that's a first—appears the Scottish keeper has hit himself with his own broom. First time flying, Wood?"

Oliver struggled to right himself using only his left arm, spitting blood out of his mouth that had trickled down from his surely broken nose. His new injury had not distracted him from the situation with his arm, which hung limply by his side. This was _bad_.

"Scotland captain has called time-out," came the commentator's voice again. Oliver shook his head vigorously to clear it and looked for where his team was gathered below him.

"What the hell was that?" Brandenberg demanded once Oliver joined the rest of his team on the ground. "Did you get hit by a bludger?"

"Sorry, that was stupid," Oliver said thickly as he wiped the blood away from his face, but he could tell that Brandenberg didn't buy it.

"It's your arm, isn't it?" It wasn't a question. Don was glaring at Oliver as the rest of the team looked on, confused. Oliver never realized quite how intimidating Don was when angry. He had never been on the receiving end of his ire, and now that he was, he realized he had made a huge mistake.

"No, no," Oliver said quietly, though he couldn't meet Brandenberg's gaze.

"Don't _fucking_ lie to me!" Brandenberg shoved him in frustration. Oliver didn't try to resist.

"How bad is it?" the captain asked. When Oliver didn't immediately respond, he continued. "Can you stay in for the rest of the game?"

"Yeah," Oliver said softly. It's not as though he had a choice. According to regulations, players could not be relieved during a game, no matter what happened. If he left the game, no one would take his place.

A whistle rang, marking the end of the time-out, and the team rose into the air once more.

"Keep the quaffle away from Wood as best you can!" Brandenberg yelled to the rest of the team as Oliver flew back into position. "He's no good to us as is."

Oliver tried to focus on the game, tried to get back in the zone, but he couldn't ignore the horrible feeling of his now-useless right arm. He thought of the time in Hogwarts when Harry Potter had had all of the bones removed from his arm by the incompetent Guilderoy Lockhart. Was this how it felt?

The French team picked up right away that Scotland's keeper was injured and played against Oliver's weaknesses. Goal after goal soared past Oliver on his right, and try as he might, he couldn't catch them. Not like this.

"Don!" Oliver could hear Scotland beater Eileen MacFhionnleigh yell out to the nearby seeker. "Catch the snitch and end this thing!"

Due to Oliver's dismal playing, they had fallen woefully behind. Even if Brandenberg caught the snitch, they'd still lose by fifty points. But Eileen was right. The match needed to end.

As if waiting for his cue, Brandenberg flew into a steep dive across the pitch, following what was only a golden glint to Oliver's eye. France's seeker was not far behind, but Don's pep talk was right: Scotland had the faster brooms.

Brandenberg pulled out of his dive with the snitch clutched in his fist. He didn't look happy. None of them did.

"Brandenberg catches the snitch, but loses the game tonight, folks," the commentator boomed. "France wins, 210 to 160! Join us in two days' time for the much anticipated England versus Ireland, right back here at the Reid Stadium!"

Oliver slumped off his broom once his feet hit the ground and followed his dejected teammates to the locker room. Before he could enter, however, Don Brandenberg blocked his path.

"Healer. Now," he said sternly, pointing down the hallway towards the sports healer's office.

"But—" Oliver protested. Brandenberg drew himself up to his full height, which was still a few inches shorter than Oliver, but menacing all the same.

" _Now_." Oliver knew better than to argue with him and started down the hallway to the healer. "And don't leave until I've spoken to you," Brandenberg called after him.

Oliver was back in the healer's office, sitting on the cot while the healer passed over his arm with his wand.

"The good news is that you haven't constricted any blood flow, so that's one less thing to worry about," the healer said after his examination. "The bad news is that it's almost definitely a pinched nerve."

Oliver was silent. He didn't know exactly what that meant, but if that's what was causing his arm to feel like he had hit his funny bone, it didn't sound good.

"You've pinched your ulnar nerve," the healer continued. "That's what's causing the tingling in the back of your arm and your ring and little finger. Usually it gets pinched _here,_ " he tapped Oliver's elbow, which sent a shot of pins and needles down his arm, "but in your case it may have gotten trapped somewhere in your shoulder."

"How long?" was all Oliver asked.

"How long for…?" the healer repeated. "Sorry, I don't quite follow."

"How long until I can play again," Oliver said, still as emotionless as before.

"Depends on if there's been any damage to the nerve," the healer explained. "Could be a month or two, could be…more."

Oliver stared at the ground and did his best to blink back tears. His livelihood—his _life_ —was being taken away from him for Merlin knows how long. All because of his stupid arm. All because of him. A traitor tear fell from his cheek and splashed onto his blood-stained uniform.

"Once the inflammation goes down, I can get a better read on how serious it is," the healer said, taking a gentler tone. "Are you willing to take steroid potions for the next few days?"

Oliver shrugged, but did not lift his gaze. "Not like I'm going to be doing much playing anyway," he said, fighting to keep the waver out of his voice.

The door to the office opened and Don Brandenberg walked inside, still in his white and blue uniform.

"Right. Well, I'll fetch those for you now, shall I? Give you two a few minutes?" The healer left the room quickly after giving a nod to Brandenberg, leaving the two players alone.

The silence in the room was deafening. Oliver continued to stare down at the floor, unwilling to meet his captain's disappointed stare. He knew that if he did he would break down, and he couldn't. Not in front of Don.

"I'm sorry—" Oliver tried, but he was cut off.

"Don't apologize to me," Brandenberg said. "Apologize to the rest of your team who you let down tonight." He didn't raise his voice, but his calm tone was enough to send Oliver over the edge. Tears rolled freely now, and Oliver didn't try to stop them.

"We lost a game tonight that we should have had in the bag, all because you couldn't swallow your pride for one game and step down," Brandenberg continued. "Did you ever stop to think that this might not be about you? That it might be about the good of the team?"

Brandenberg waited for a response, but all Oliver trusted himself to do was shake his head. He would not sob. Not now. Not in front of his captain.

"Unless there's a miracle sometime between now and March, we won't even be in the running for the World Cup," he said. Oliver squeezed his eyes shut. He knew this. He knew this, and he had fucked it all up.

"Look at me, Oliver." Oliver grudgingly obeyed and lifted his tear-stained face towards Brandenberg. "I don't want to see you anywhere near this pitch until you are back to one-hundred-percent," he said seriously. "I don't care how long it takes; if you're not completely fine, you're not on this team. And…if this isn't something you can't come back from…If it's too far gone… Well, then that's life, isn't it."

A fresh wave of tears streamed down Oliver's face as the severity of his situation struck him. He could lose his job, his career, his passion. He could lose _everything._

"Take your recovery seriously, Oliver," Don said, and he sat down next to him on the cot. "Don't let this ruin you. You are a _damn_ fine player, and I don't want to see this break you." He put his hand on top of Oliver's clenched left fist. "Take the time you need, and come back when you're ready."

Before Oliver could find the words to respond, Brandenberg had left the office and the sports healer took his place.

"Here's the potions for you," he said, setting a rattling box of glass vials down next to Oliver. "Instructions are in there, but you'll take four of them throughout the day tomorrow, three the next day, two the next, and so on."

Oliver nodded numbly.

"Do you have a way to get home safely?" the healer asked. Oliver looked at him quizzically.

"I usually apparate," Oliver said, his voice sounding hoarse.

"Not a good idea in your condition," the healer said delicately. "Especially with your arm the way it is, you might get splinched." Oliver winced at that. No matter how bad his condition was now, he would not risk making it worse by splinching himself.

After a bit of back and forth, Oliver made it home to his flat using the Floo Network. The healer had been opposed to the idea, pointing out that the spinning and roughness of travel could make matters worse, but short of calling Oliver a Muggle cab, there wasn't much choice.

As soon as he stumbled out of the fireplace, Oliver collapsed into the nearest couch. He was still wearing his bloodied quidditch robes, had not showered, and had not eaten. Despite his deep desire to stay on the couch until his death, something had to be done.

He struggled to disrobe for his shower, and for the first time in a long time, Oliver wished he didn't live alone. There was no one to help him remove his cape, to unlatch his keeper's gear, or undo his laces. After struggling for a few minutes to shampoo his hair without lifting his right arm, he gave up and resigned himself to eat instead.

Oliver had never really considered "settling down" or "dating"—at least not seriously. He was of the firm opinion that dating was a distraction from Quidditch. He cited players like Calliope Dodge, Septimus Asbury, and now Ginny Potter in his defense. All of them "settled down" and all of them retired from Quidditch while in their prime. He never wanted to be one of them.

But now, as he stared down the barrel of thirty, sitting alone in his flat, struggling to hold his fork with his left hand… But now, as he was faced with the possible end of his career… Now, maybe it didn't sound so bad.

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 _A/n: Thanks for reading x_


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